The Longest Night
by bamftastik
Summary: *MA/NSFW* On the night of Morrigan's ritual, the Warden tries to forget... and ends up remembering.


Slipping through the door of the dining hall, she leaned heavy against the wall. It came in heaving waves, surging up from a place below her belly, clawing from her very core. The sobs threatened, her back buckling against the cold stone, the bile in her throat burning.

She didn't see them at first, the watching eyes. There would be questions, worry; she didn't think the dam could hold against such a barrage. Most hadn't seen her yet, bent and talking in hushed voices, sharing the last of the Arl's stores. Zevran and Oghren sat nearby, nearest the door, a familiar horn passing from the dwarf's hand to the elf's. Zevran's brow rose, nose wrinkling, but the jest died on his tongue as his gaze met hers across the open space.

She couldn't hold it back, not anymore. The trembling seemed to start in her chest, fingers knotting together in a desperate attempt to still her hands, lips quivering before she could bite down. He hesitated only a moment, surprise and curiosity fading as he came quickly to his feet.

"A moment, my friend."

Oghren, for his part, gave her only a cursory glance, balancing the sloshing horn as the elf's hand clapped to his shoulder. Whatever reply there had been was lost beneath his dampened beard.

Zevran paused some distance from her. The playful smile slipped, becoming almost reassuring, before fading all together. "Warden?"

The words choked in her throat. The burning had reached her eyes now. She could only shake her head.

He followed her gaze, glancing quickly round the room. None had seen them yet. With a hasty nod, he ushered her through the door.

The hall was quiet, curving round to the stairs at its far end. Even now she couldn't look to them, the memory of her own running steps still seeming to echo on the stone. She turned instead round the bend, to the cold and unyielding benches waiting there.

Zevran sat first, seeming surprised again at her hesitance. Only slowly did she sink, knees bending to curl beneath her. Now she was sitting, now she was waiting…

He must have known that he would get no answers this way, for he relaxed purposefully, visibly. "Why Warden, never would I have thought to see you afraid."

Her eyes snapped to his, but she couldn't summon the glare. Not tonight.

"I mean, what is a little archdemon to the likes of us?"

She sagged then, grateful again for the wall at her back, letting her hands fall to her lap.

"Ah, that is it, yes? The archdemon?"

She nodded.

He, for once, fell quiet, musing. "It is not often we face the last night of our lives. None of us has much chance, but for you Wardens…"

"You know?"

"Morrigan hinted as much."

She flinched. He would see it, she knew. But she tried to summon a chuckle, to make her voice light. "Did everyone know but us?"

He shrugged. "That you or Alistair must fall? I do not know."

"Or Riodan."

Something in his face grew still, playful light leaving the eyes entire. "You do not truly think it will be Riodan, do you?"

She had to turn away. "No."

The hand that came to rest on her shoulder was soft and warm. "Where is Alistair, then? I know that if it were my last night, I would—"

It came then, bending her shoulders beneath a silent scream. Clutching arms round her knees, she bent double, arcing, racking against the sobs. But still the tears would not come. It was too big; it burned too much.

She barely noticed the hands tracing gentle whorls on her back. Time passed, three minutes, four, she could not count. But it had taken her at last and now, slowly, it began to pass. Soon enough she was able to meet his eyes.

"We will not fall. There is another way."

"Truly?" The light had returned to his eyes, his expression becoming one of open wonder. "There is another way to defeat the archdemon?"

"Defeat" was not the word she would use, but questions of morality, of prices to be paid would exact their due in time. Now, now all she could hear was blood, her own still coming fast, still pounding in her ears. It was all she could do not to scream.

Perhaps he sensed something of it. His hand had left her back, wavering hesitant now. "Warden. What is it?"

"A ritual."

"Morrigan?"

Teeth broke the skin of her lip as she nodded. "And Alistair."

"What sort of a…?" The words died then, realization striking home. "Ahh."

Again she turned to her lap, to the hands lying useless there. If only the tears would fall, anything to stop… this.

Zevran slid closer, his words barely a whisper. "To save your life."

"And his."

"No. Trust me. That is not what he is thinking of tonight."

"I don't want to _know_ what he's thinking."

"Warden…" One arm snaked round her shoulders, pulling her close.

Burying her head in his chest, she let the sobs come at last.

* * *

Darkness. Never had the thought to find anything so welcome. Fearful things moved by night and men did their best to keep the shadows at bay. But there was no blight lurking in the hidden corners of this room. No, this was something much worse.

He could hear her moving somewhere to his left, the rustle as the last of her garments slipped to the floor. Already he had seen more than he had wanted, the complicated folds of her robes slithering cross her back before the light was snuffed.

But _she_ had still been here then, framed in the light of the door, shadow breaking cross her face as she pulled it shut. Even Morrigan, her weight now coming on the edge of the bed, could never hurt him so much as that expression.

"Trust me," she had said. "It is the only way." Why then had it looked so terrible, as if he had already delivered the killing blow?

One of them would die. Here, though, now… feeling the slide of those legs against his, the strange and forceful press of a stranger… was death really such a bad fate? For him, perhaps. But not for _her_.

He could spare her, spare them both. All he had to do was impregnate a witch with his hideous, demon bastard.

Sure, no problem.

* * *

"Here."

She stirred, lifting her head from her hands to accept the proffered cup. Bringing it to her nose, she took a hesitant sniff.

Returning to his place beside her, Zevran laughed. "It is not what you suspect. Wine. From Arl Eamon's own stores."

"And what if I suspected poison?"

"Ahh, you shame me. Have I not given my oath?"

Leaning back, she took a long sip. It was good, appropriately bitter, but warming and welcome. She ran a tongue across her lips.

"If you would prefer something more akin to Oghden's brew…"

"No, it's… thank you."

"You are a woman of exceptional taste."

Spinning the cup in her hands, she again let her head slump between her shoulders. "Yeah…"

Zevran, though, seemed better prepared for this. He slipped a finger beneath her chin, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. "I believe that this is the time to get… pissed, as they say."

With a flourish, he produced the bottle from beneath the bench, emptying a sloshing draught into her cup. She couldn't help but laugh.

Sitting back, he rolled his own cup between his fingers, bringing it to his lips for only the briefest of sips. She could see the thoughts spinning behind his eyes, as if he were trying to find one in the tumult that would keep the fearful silence at bay.

"Zevran."

He blinked.

"Thank you. Truly." She drained her cup in one pull, meeting his grin over the darkened rim. She was surprised to find her own smile holding here, almost honest, almost real.

Even seated, he made a half bow. "I am but your lady's servant. However I may be of… assistance."

It was old habit, she knew, the double-laced words, the charming leer. She hadn't expected to see his face fall, the apology coming awkward as he turned away. "I am sorry. I did not mean…"

It was her turn to comfort him, it seemed, her hand coming to rest easy on his knee. "Zev. If I weren't half expecting you to try and bed me… Well, I don't know what I would do with myself."

He chuckled. "The world would suddenly be turned on its head, yes?"

"Exactly."

"Then I am here to serve."

There should be jests now, jokes. Still, her hand lingered on his leg. An old memory of this place stirred. Overrun it had been, their party taking refuge from the waking dead in a quiet pantry. It was here, in this very fortress, that they had been able to steal a few moments alone.

"Zevran?"

"Yes?"

"You remember the last time we were here? What you asked me?"

"About you and Alistair? Your answer was clear enough."

Her fingers stiffened, hand lifting to waver in the space between them. "It was. But perhaps… perhaps it wasn't entirely honest."

It took some time before she could raise her eyes to meet his, to face the eerie stillness there.

"Do not say it, Warden. For both our sakes." He took the cup from between her fingers, the movement sudden and harsh.

But the words were clear now, cutting through the would-be fog. "I don't think… I don't think I understood. What was being asked."

He set both cups beneath the bench with the bottle. "You have Alistair. You have the stuff of legends, the kind of love for which you would risk the world." His gaze was pointed, trailing to the distant stairs. Beyond them, perhaps in a room just above…

She shook her head. "We do. But this… this is nice too."

"'Nice?' Your tongue is surely gilded."

"Different. Just as important, I think, in its own way."

"Perhaps I spoke too soon. You ply your words as artfully as any bard. But you realize that they too are usually assassins?"

"From one to another then."

Still he watched her with narrowed eyes, dangerous eyes, but he did not flinch when she took his hand.

Something of the familiar smile returned but it was guarded, strange. "My dear Warden, are you proposing to use me? To seek vengeance on your Alistair, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "As you said, this may well be our final night. I would face it without any regrets."

* * *

She sighed heavy, rolling off of him and onto her side.

"Had I known you were not up to the task…"

Pillowing his arms beneath his head, he turned away, biting hard into his tongue to keep the words from escaping.

She fell quiet, but still he could feel her coiled just behind him, impatience crackling on the air like a thing alive. Beneath him, the sheets were damp, a fresh welling bead sliding from his nose to join the rest.

Morrigan rolled onto her back. "Perhaps our leader would have been better suited. A woman, yes, but still…"

The roar escaped him at last, the grunting wail crushed against her chest as he pulled her to him. Delicate flesh would surely bruise beneath his grip, but as she slid atop to take him in, she only laughed.

* * *

At the brush of her lips, he turned away. They found only the strange smoothness of cheek and chin, those fair and delicate features. He was already naked to the waist, her fingers tracing over the strange symbols of his face and neck.

Already he seemed somehow too small, too slight, but there was a waiting energy there, an eager strength that all the muscles of human men could not hope to match. She could feel him stirring already as her own tunic fell away, deft fingers moving now to her breeches.

It had not been so long ago, not so long at all, that the sight of him had maddened her. Before Alistair, yes, but there had been more than a few such nights.

At the name newer thoughts stirred, raw and throbbing still. All she could see was _her_ face. Would it always be like this now? She desperately hoped it was not so, but that was a worry for another time. Tonight was about something else.

She had missed him, she realized. With Alistair, these moments were beyond precious, tendered, treasured. And she loved him for it. With Zevran, though, this was only part of who he was. Without it… She smiled.

But they had forced the choice, Alistair with his suspicions and his bluster, Zevran with his silences and weighing glances. He had not been first to speak but she feared he would have, given time.

He arched against her, hair thrown behind his head to fall in wild waves. This was his gift, his glory. Leliana had her songs, Sten his skill in battle. When_ this_ had been lost, so too had he.

She felt it escape her lips, the thousand things she might have said, coming in a wordless rush. He seemed to echo her, falling forward now to brush his hair across her face.

Was it possible? Possible to love them differently, but love them both?

Again her hand stretched searching, falling against his cheek, turning his face to hers. His lips were warm, the breath rushed and burning.

"You do not have to…"

Rising from the bed, she wrapped her arms round his neck, the lines of their bodies bending together as their lips met. "I do."

* * *

She rose above him, braids falling cross her eyes as her smile grew. Wide, dark eyes snapped open, the breath coming in a rush as he moved into her. Something, though, tugged at him, a warning gnawing at the edge of thought. He had been frightened, broken, but she was here now. The groan came thick and deep.

He reached for her, for the soft and familiar feel of her, warm and welcoming and his. His hand, though, found only air, the harsh lines of bone beneath. She sighed, then, but it was a voice unexpected, the cold traveling up his spine as memory returned.

Morrigan.

She stopped, sensing it perhaps. He could almost see her in the darkness now, sharp elbows digging into his chest as she lowered her face to his.

"Alright. If that is your wish. You shall fall. Or perhaps it will be your Warden."

For all that she was, apostate, witch, generally unpleasant bitch, she spoke the truth.

The growl came fierce now. He shot from the bed, spinning her beneath him, pressing down with a force that should have taken the breath from her.

Morrigan, though, only chuckled. "My dear Alistair, I did not know you had it in you."

She had done her work well, given him what he needed. The movements came from a place beyond thought, stabbing quick. He could almost hear pain now behind her gasps.

"I will not. Let her. Die."

* * *

At the click of the door, she stiffened. The room that Eamon had provided them was fine, but far too close to the other for her liking. She had crept past, fearing what she might hear as much as discovery. But the hall had remained empty, her steps unnoticed.

Those few moments beneath the blankets, waiting, straining every sense, had been the longest of her life. But she had not had to wait long.

His steps came heavy, her feigned sleep holding as she felt his eyes linger. He moved to the distant edge of the bed, slipping beneath the blankets without a word.

She stirred, then, unable to help it. Whatever had happened – to either of them – was over now. She placed a hand, palm flat against his back, feeling the muscles stiffen, the tension immediately beginning to fade away.

Alistair turned, fixing her with wide and pained eyes, the heavy rise and fall of the lids doing nothing to lessen the fear and guilt, the shame and anger there. He moved with her, sliding close as she shifted against the pillows, burying his face in her chest.

Rocking there, she stroked him, whispering gentle kisses into his still sodden hair. Here the Grey Wardens took their last rest, here the Grey Wardens wept.


End file.
